


Of Destruction, Saviours, and Fighters: Stage I

by orphan_account



Series: Of Destruction, Saviours, and Fighters (His and His and Their Story) [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Marvel) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Bloody Imagery, Cutting, Depression, Distorted Thoughts, Hiding in the shadows creepy, Howard Stark Is a Dick, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Howard Stark's Bad Parenting, Improper Grammar, Jarvis Is A Bro, Like obsessively creepy, Loki Is Obsessive, Loki is a bit of a creeper here, M/M, ODSF:HHTS, ODSF:S1, Overuse of run-on sentences, POV: Tony Stark, Panic Attacks, Scattered Thoughts, Self-Harm, Slightly Out Of Character, So so sorry, Sorta Kinda Tony POV, Suicide Attempt, The Avengers are a bit of a dick, Tony Angst, Tony Feels, Tony Has Issues, Tony Needs a Hug, Unbeta'd, but not really, frostironprompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-11-25 11:25:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Alternatively Titled: <em>Let Me Be Your Saviour</em>.)</p><p> </p><p>  <em>This is a story...or rather, a tale of how one no longer associates a mask with strictly entertainment or performance purposes. A tale of how one looks into the mirror and doesn't see oneself but rather the mask that has fitted, cracked, and repaired itself to fit them. This is a story of how one can only take so much before they can't even be arsed to hold up the pretense of being masked. This a tale of sadness and pain and broken masks and how the ideals of repairing oneself is such a long and torturous journey. This is a story of how sometimes, one step forward leads ten steps back and things are never as simple and easy as we want it to be.</em></p><p> </p><p>[This story was previously posted, then deleted and restarted. Also, it is written for <a href="http://frostironprompt.livejournal.com/518.html?thread=49926#t49926">this prompt</a> and I would <em>definitely</em> not recommend those who are easily triggered to read this story at all.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Introduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which a character is introduced in a manner that is just the slightest bit of dreadful. Also in which there are warnings for vague depictions of self-harm, an even more vague mention of child abuse and alcoholism, and a good bit of mentioned bloody imagery. Finally, this is unbeta'd and it will always be that way. ~~Deal with it.~~

> _By definition, masks are objects typically worn over the face for protection, disguise, performance or entertainment. More often than not, people associate masks with entertainment or performance purposes. Protective masks are typical not our first thoughts when we think of these particular object, but my dearest reader, I do believe that you are quite past this stage of blissful ignorance and can face the reality._
> 
> _Now, before I can begin to weave this tale for you, let me explain some things to you. There will be times in which you may have the urge to sympathize with or pity the broken warriors (or heroes or maybe, villians would be a tad bit approprite...nevertheless, the title choices is yours for the choosing), however I assure you that it isn't necessary. Actually, it's preferred that you don't allow that silly sentiment to exist, let alone overule your mind whilst indulging in this tale for these characters...these people needn't you do so. They pity themselves and that is more than enough. There will also be times in which you'll have the urge to scream and shout to the high heavens that they are not what they believe, but I suggest you supress the urge to do so for these characters have clouded judgements and understandings and what you see is not what I see nor what what they themselves see...and isn't that a pity? There will be times in which you may shed a tear or two or maybe a few. Don't let them catch your tears. They'll find some way to blame themselves. A tad selfish, don't you agree? And finally, there will be times in which you may trip and catch yourself viewing this broken ones as weak. They are cracked, but not weak. They are everything, but weak. Do not baby them._
> 
> _This is a story...or rather, a tale of how one no longer associates a mask with strictly entertainment or performance purposes. A tale of how one looks into the mirror and doesn't see oneself but rather the mask that has fitted, cracked, and repaired itself to fit them. This is a story of how one can only take so much before they can't even be arsed to hold up the pretense of being masked. This a tale of sadness and pain and broken masks and how the ideals of repairing oneself is such a long and torturous journey. This is a story of how sometimes, one step forward leads ten steps back and things are never as simple and easy as we want it to be._

When he was five years old, much too young to carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and much too young to understand the strength of a mask ( _let alone how they worked_ ). But he wasn't your average child, was he? Not even in the slightest. While he watched the other kids his age play with friends, scrape their knees on concrete, or jump off swings, he found him absolute solace in the hum of technology, he got more bruises from sneaking into his father's lab ( _in more ways than one, but really...who's paying attention, right?_ ) to play there than he could ever get otherwise, and rather than jump off swings, he took leaps of faith into the world of creation and design. He was born into a family of wealth and intelligence and royalty. It would have been such a pity if he hadn't inherited some of that wealth, let alone a fraction and then some of that intelligence. But, dearest readers, we know that with all good fortune comes some equally as bad fortune and yet, at five no one expected him to realize how much that intelligence, _his supposed genius mind_ , would be a downfall in the lowest points in his life. 

It was at this age that he first understood the beauty of creating his own fantasy world and his own friends. He built his first robot at ths age, the gift of engineering and becoming one with the metals and alloys an imprint deep into the subconscious of his mind. He was happy and filled to the brim with what he would later associate with _pride_ and _satisfaction_ at the sight and thought of having created something that he could call his own. All perfection in all its imperfections. He was tempted to show it to everyone, to brag that he had created something, that even at this age...he _understood_. 

But again, with all good fortune comes with just enough bad fortune to cause one to be momentarily ( _well, if we're being truly honest here...momentarily isn't as appropriate of a word as indefinitely is_ ) and it is with that thought in mind that if one were to peek into the little one's room, their heart would shatter much like the one's they watched had. He was huddled in the corner, body heaving with the intensity of harsh sobbing, creation torn to bits and pieces and no longer identifiable, and hands dripping the smallest droplets of blood onto the carpeted floor of the room; those small, beautiful hands bled from where he tore into and bent the metal to take apart the small robot.

It was at the age of five that he truly learned the pain and desperation that came with not being good enough and while some people ( _well, all of us really_ ) would say that he was far too young to be feeling such things, this was the sad reality of his life. And as he went through the paces of these unknown feelings, he balled his hands into tiny fists and his nails dug into the small cuts. The cuts slowly but surely deepened and the blood began dripping at a more consistent pace as the sobbing ceased and a blissfully numbing sensation coursed through his body. He was sated in the weirdest of manners and as he lowered his head to his arms to watch the blood drop from the cuts, he smiled something dark and positively  _feral_. 

And while five is far too young to be tasting the beginning of a mask fitting into place, one could suppose that no one can truly help how nor when the cracks form and the masks fit.

Another five years had gone by and while still _so young_ to truly understand, he knew he wasn't altogether there. He knew that while he wanted desperately to do well, he just seemed to _consistently fail_. And some would claim he was being over dramatic and completely irrational as the only person to feel and make him feel as if he were not good enough was _his father_ ( _did you hear that tang of leftover ~~sadness and~~ bitterness?_) and while his father was not everyone to _anyone_ , it was everyone to _him_ and as much as he tried to run from it, to reassure himself...he couldn't and _fuck, it hurt_.

Over the years, he learned quickly to bite his tongue and to lock off his emotions because _"he was a Stark and as a Stark emotions are nothing but a weakness."_   It was because of this that he was alone, or maybe it was that combined with him keeping his distance after his first friendship ended when he learned that his "friend" wasn't exactly a friend but someone who had wanted his riches and those _bragging rights_ ( _and trust me, this will be a pattern that continues into his later life_ ). He learned at that point what _trust_ and _loyalty_ meant and how no one seemed to understand either of those things. But it was okay he supposed for they were still  _children_ and had much to learn ( _and isn't that i_ _ronic coming from one who was only aged ten?_ ).

He stared at himself in the mirror, a hand coming up to run slightly roughened fingertips along the blooming bruises on his face. He closed his eyes as the memory resurfaced:

> _The scent of alcohol clung to the air, thick and heady, but that wasn't a concern to him for he was used to it. And as a bottle as lurched in his direction, he had to duck just in time to dodge the liquor bottle before it smashed against the wall. He hadn't flinched in the slightest and he rose back up, he was far too used it (and, isn't that sad?). He inhaled deeply as he watched the older gentlemen, his father, drunkenly stumble towards him. He watched as his father bumped into his desk along the way, yelling something at him that he barely caught the jist of as he watched pitures of his father, Captain America, and the rest of the Howling Commandos fall to the ground. He was still not focusing completely on the words being slurred out at him as he found himself drawn to the pictures and the smile on his father's face as he stood next to Captain America. And as his limbs were bruised, somewhat excessively, he couldn't bring himself to feel anything as he closed his eyes and took it all, the smile that he never saw nor would ever see imprinted behind his eyelids. And he silently cried._

When his eyes fluttered open again, he gave himself a proper once over and took in the extent of the damage done to his person. His arms were littered with bruises, some in the form of full handprints, some were fingerprints from where he was gripped tightly and manhandled. When he raised his head once again, he chuckled; a desolate and broken sound that matched the blank darkness in his eyes. He turned on the tap to a warm temperature and leaned down to splash water on his face, washing away the dried tears and soothing the bruises. When he stood up straight again, he smiled bitterly before his face smoothed out once again and he turned away from the mirror.

He curled up in his bed and closed his eyes, imagining what it'd be like to his see his father smile at him the way he did in the pictures but dreams are dreams and sadly aren't the closest thing to reality and he knew that. So he held onto that dream, pulled it and kept it close because it wouldn't be long before that dream would fade into nothingness.

At age ten, he was a genius prodigy who could breeze through almost anything given to him, but never truly _good enough_. 

If he were to look back at his _growing_ years, he probably would call himself stupid for how long it actually took for him to realize that what he thought was normal emotionally, was in fact not. He wished that he learned, caught on quicker to the fact that he was wearing so many masks. Masks around his father, masks around the teachers who despised him because he was far superior to them in intelligence ( _and really, it wasn't his fault that sometimes his brain to mouth filter shut down and he hadn't any sense of self control to stop himself from calling them out on their ignorance...it was theirs really_ ), especially masks for the general public; for the other students, for the paparazzi, for the world and other worlds ( _if there were any_ ) to see. 

If he could pinpoint a time where the ideal of masks and how important they were, yet in the same breath absolutely destructive when let down, it'd probably be at fifteen. He had powered his way through schooling ( _and that wasn't all too shocking to us, is it?_ ) and found himself being happily accepted to MIT. He hadn't known whether or not it was because of his name or because of his talents nor had he cared at the time and he'd later refer to MIT as his personal twisted domain of blood, drugs, alcohol, and _creation_. 

A part of him regretted the years he spent at MIT just as much as he thoroughly enjoyed it. He met Rhodey there. Lovely and as close to perfect as you can get, Rhodey ( _this title would be extended to another in the future, but this is the past_ ) and the friendship they built once they got past their prides ( _or his false sense of pride and Rhodey's well warranted pride_ ). Dummy and Jarvis were both created as well. Dummy, his first creation that ended up mattering just as much later on in life as it did before and Jarvis, something he created to fill the void of losing one that was more important to him than anyone else ( _because if you lose someone only made sense to create something in memory of them...right?_ ). So those were the good things that came from MIT: Dummy, Jarvis, and Rhodey, his three friends and protectors ( _despite any troubles they may have faced or will face down the road...they still owned that title first and foremost_ ). And if we were being honest here, those were the only things that kept him grounded.

But before Rhodey, before Dummy and Jarvis, he was fifteen, alone and really being _a fucking Stark_ was enough to put a target on his back. And as he walked down the hallways to his room, he resisted the urge to give into cracking in front of those judging and whispering twats. Whispers of how he was riding on the legacy of _The Great Howard Stark_ and would never measure up to the level of intelligence and greatness his father had for he was nothing but a second choice and that's what he would always be. Instead of cracking, he kept his head up and turned his head to the whisperers with a feral grin and blazing, wild eyes. After all, those words couldn't ignite too much of an emotion in him because they matched his own and his father's own. He was aware that he was his own person and that his intelligence was nothing to take lightly, but he was sculpted to be like his father and even if he was accustomed to every thing he didn't want to be an abusive, unloving, emotionless bastard of a _human being_ ( _again with the bitterness_ ). 

When he arrived at his room, he inhaled deeply and quickly made his way inside. Locking the door behind him, he immediately sunk face first to his bed. As he inhaled and exhaled shuddering breaths, letting the masks fall as the whispers took true form in his head and grew louder, he curled into himself. The taste of panic was heady on his tongue and he was too far gone to claw himself out of the sensation of dread and drowning and _cracking_. As he faded in and out of staying above and going under, he belatedly realized that he had be tremblng and rocking back and forth and that his nails were raking along his arms. He didn't remember when he full slipped under nor could he really tell you what it felt like to be submerged, but once he came to, he revelled in the numbing silence of his mind and the blood running down his arms. 

He was completely unhealthy, slightly deranged, alone and _utterly broken_ at the age of fifteen and somehow...he figured that he was better off being completely fucked here than where he was before. If he were to be in pain, then he was to be the cause of his pain and no one else, not the others around him, the press, nor his father... _him_. And as his breathing hitched slightly before evening out completely, he felt at ease with that thought. 

It would be a lie to everyone and himself if he were to tell people that after he met Rhodey and created both Dummy and Jarvis that things got better for him. He spent his college years tasting the bitter tang of casual sex and the sweet blissful numbness that came with the burn of the strongest bottle of liquor he could crawl into. 

And then suddenly, he was twenty one. Twenty one and an adult. He wasn't any adult though, he was _Anthony Edward Stark_ ; an adult, a narcissistic bachelor, a lone warrior ( _Rhodey and bots weren't enough to truly bump him from loneliness_ ), a CEO, and a business man. He was an orphan in more than one way, having said good bye to his birth parents and the only person who was truly any sort of a father figure in his life. And although, he was no longer physically reminded of his demons, he was always going to be mentally reminded. He drowned his sorrows in the strongest alcohol and the _red, red, red_ of his own blood. Some nights, the bottles littered the floors of whatever room he was drinking in, just as the cuts littered the various parts of his body.

He was damaged goods and no one would dare to touch damaged goods. There were times that he wished he could fall back on the feelng of having to answer to his father, but Howard was dead and so were Maria and Jarvis ( _and soon Obie would be dead too, but ah! Obie's a separate story for a darker time_ ) and he no longer had anyone to answer to, just himelf. And he began to drown again as he downed the liquor that burned the back of his throat and tanned skin paled where the criss-cross of cuts were healing. _These were his demons_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is again, unbeta'd. So there are some spelling errors and missing words that you may come across. If spot one or some, feel free to let me know so that I can fix it. I do suppose I owe an explanation as to why this story was deleted, only to be restarted and reposted. I didn't like the direction it was going in nor did I like the way that I was writing it, so I decided to rewrite it in a manner that I felt more comfortable writing it in. The more comfortable I am in the way I'm writing it, the more I can attempt to make it more enjoyable for you lot as readers. I did keep a good bit of what was previously written, but I wrote in a different way or it was placed in a different spot. So, while some major aspects are still there, it's definitely a huge difference (or so it seems to me). On the previous mentions of comments, they'd be lovely (so would kudos...but I'm not greedy) because I'd rather enjoy having an opinion on how I'm writing. So comments, yes? ♥


	2. The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He smiled softly, "Thank you, J. I genuinely mean this...I do not regret you or others, but I do regret me and for that I'm sorry. Sorry that I cannot be as good to you as you deserve. Sorry that I wasn't good enough of a person, smart enough of a person to protect those as an Avenger. And I'm really sorry that I wasn't able to be truly happy nor content because more than anything else, I'm broken."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which mental stability is destroyed, berating is a mentioned fad, and sometimes people are truly sorry for everything they feel they really can't be. Also in which there are warnings for mentions of alcohol abuse and self-harm. Finally, this is unbeta'd and it will always be that way. ~~Deal with it.~~

> _Some would say that we are all lost souls shrouded by the depths of our own internal darkness as the reason behind us liking tales such as these. Others would say we simply lack self-preservation skills. And maybe, just maybe, you'll catch someone calling us weird or insane. But that isn't quite true. Is it, my fellow reader?_
> 
> _To us, tales such as these are absolutely beautiful. The way they fill us with all these emotions, almost as if purposely clouding your judgment and clarity completely and practically laugh in the bliss of your understanding. These tales, these oh-so-desperately tragic tales of the broken and their cracks are absolutely beautiful. So damned beautiful._
> 
> _Now as the teller of this tale, I suppose that I shall apologize up front as they'll be no such thing as an apology in the future. I apologize now if things get too confusing, if you can't truly understand, and don't realize you too are drowning, but I assure you, dear readers, that sometimes the best bouts of understandings come when you are submerged as well (and isn't that a bit conflicting with what was asked of you previously? have you caught on as of yet?)_
> 
> _I would say that we would meet again at the bottom, but if we're being honest here...we haven't truly reached the end nor is the end truly in sight, is it? For the bottom is not truly rock bottom and before one must go up, they must go down but that is the true law of gravity...and life is nothing but purely gravity._

Sometimes when he was alone (o _r as alone as he could get with his home filled with five others and a couple of sentient robots and AI_ ), he found himself locked in his only place of comfort; _his workshop_. Some nights he'd be nursing a tumbler filled with something that looked rather similar to that of one of the strongest liquors ( _which would later be identified as tea_ ) and he would submerge himself in his craft, hoping to fight off the deafening screams and harsh words that hadn't managed to truly leave him in over twenty years. Other nights, he lock everything down, isolate himself completely and just allow himself that satisfaction of momentarily breaking down. At those times, he supposed he could count it as a win due to the fact that since began drinking less, he rarely had the urge to litter his arms and legs with cuts when he was in his isolated state of mind.

Today, though, were neither of those types of days. Today was a day that hadn't happened to him in years and maybe that was why it was so much more intense. For one, he wasn't in his lab and he was obviously in a shit mood. For another, the way his body swayed slightly was an obvious sign of his drunkenness, or maybe he was swaying from the blood loss he was currently experiencing. With a soft chuckle and hum, he sunk to the floor and curled into himself. The part of his mind that never seemed to shut up no matter the amount of liquor he drank or blood he shed, reminded him of how pathetic he was for seemingly reverting back to the state of cracking that he had left behind years ago. And he had to admit, even in his drunken and self harmed stupor, that he agreed. But really, there's only so much one can take and as he dug his nails into the cuts littering his arms, he closed his eyes and subconsciously drifted into the darkness of his mind.

> _As he hovered over the destruction and smoke surrounding him, he had to refrain from vomiting in his suit. He could still hear those screams and cries for help. The screams of someone who's taking their final breaths. The screams of someone who could have been saved, but he was stupid and a failure and nothing ever truly goes right for him. And his eyes glassed over with tears as he continued to hover. He could taste the bitter tang of fear, blood, and death mingling headily on the tip of his tongue and he could feel the soft tremors running up and down his body._
> 
> _He snapped back to reality when he heard the faint sounds of Jarvis trying to draw him back._   
>  _"` Sir...Sir...`Sir!" _   
>  _He inhaled deeply before responding, his throat feeling far tighter than it normally does and his voice coming out far softer than he intended it to, "I'm here, I'm here."_   
>  _"It's good to have you back, Sir. You were falling into a state of shock and I doubt you'd have wanted anyone see the state you are currently in. Am I right in my assumptions, Sir?"_   
>  _He took a few deep breaths to collect himself before he muttered a soft yes; silently thankful that he could trust Jarvis far more than he could probably trust anyone else._   
>  _"As of now, Sir, your heart rate is back to normal and shouldn't be experiencing any form of an anxiety attack unless your heart rate elevates again. I've cut off the communications with the other Avengers. They are currently heading back to the Tower to rest before the debriefing that, no doubt, shall occur in the near future. You are permitted to leave, Sir."_
> 
> _He nodded absentmindedly before taking off in direction of the Tower, far too eager to remove the suit that aided him the death an innocent one and indulge in the burn of the strongest liquor. He deserved that much...if anything at all._

So when he landed, he indulged. Indulged in locking himself in his lab until it was necessary to leave, a few shots of that lovely thirty year old scotch he had hidden in his lab, and a minor panic attack that left him clinging to Jarvis as the artificial intelligence brought him back and stabilized him enough to face the debriefing and criticisms. 

He thought that he was steeled enough to handle the criticisms that would come his way ( _because let's be real, actions like that which lead to consequences such as an innocent dying because of him warranted a couple blows to his person_ ), but looking back on it he probably should've known that no amount of steeling would prepare him to take the beating he took when combining his own berating with the berating that came from the others. But he couldn't blame them in the slightest and at times, he had to bite his tongue to refrain from screaming at them that he was already beating himself up over the entire situation, that he was wishing for a punishment far more severe than the _fucking shit_ they were dishing out to him ( _but if he did that, he'd be a sarcastic twat...wouldn't he? for no one truly expects Tony Stark to "feel", he's nothing but a sociopath..obviously_ ). And so he took it all. The attacks at his intelligence, the reminders of his failures and his consequences, and when it was all said and done he left without a sound to retreat to his penthouse.

Which leads him back to this. This drunken and bloody, broken and pathetic mess of a monster who couldn't do anything right and was simply fooling himself in believing that he could ever do something worthwhile like be a superhero. And he truly wished that he could be nonexistent, rid the world of every ounce of his pathetic being. _Huh...that sounded like a lovely idea._ He rose to his feet, stumbling ( _more like dragging his feet really_ ) and mumbling for Jarvis to open the doors leading to the balcony. When the gentle wind hit him, he sobered up slightly and he found himself sitting atop the ledge and overlooking the beautiful skylines of New York city and in that moment he felt complete peace. He closed his eyes before speaking softly.

"Maybe in another life where I wasn't such a waste of time, where I wasn't worth it, where I didn't fail...I'll be truly happy. Do think that's true, Jarvis?"  
"Maybe Sir. But if I may say this: In another life, we might have never been as we are. We wouldn't be Jarvis and Tony. We wouldn't be the man and creation who trusted each other more than they trusted anyone else. Maybe in the life where you are completely happy there'd be no me, no Dummy, no Butterfingers, no You. There'd be no Rhodey or Pepper. And sir, you may not be the Sir that I know."  
As he and Jarvis fell into a quiet, yet comfortable silene, he smiled softly, "Thank you, J. I genuinely mean this...I do not regret you or others, but I do regret me and for that I'm sorry. Sorry that I cannot be as good to you as you deserve. Sorry that I wasn't good enough of a person, smart enough of a person to protect those as an Avenger. And I'm really sorry that I wasn't able to be truly happy nor content because more than anything else, I'm _broken_."  
" _Sir..._ "  
He chuckled softly, hearing the undertones of wistfulness in that one word Jarvis uttered, "Sorry again, J. Mute." And silence filled the air once again.  
  
He scooted closer to the edge, his eyes fluttering close as he inhaled deeply. And with another slight shift he was falling.

> _“Only in death will we have our own names since only in death are we no longer part of the effort. In death we become heroes.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for how it takes me to update this story, I'm a bit busy with college preparations and portfolio stuff. So even though I have these chapters done, editing and posting them wouldn't be done in a decent enough time/manner. 
> 
> Before I talk about how much this unbeta'd and how I'd love for you lot to point out to me all the things you spot wrong in the story, I do need to touch on something. On the previous chapter, [purpletoedmonster](http://archiveofourown.org/users/purpletoedmonster/) commented and pointed out a lot of things to me. Why is that important? For a few reasons: One she pointed out a few things that were unintentional mistakes and reminded me that I needed to reread my posting as I post chapters and then go back and edit them later on. Two, it made me realize that maybe the tags of this story aren't as explanatory as I thought they were. Allow to me to elaborate on a few of the tags for this story.
>
>> 1\. "POV: Tony Stark" / "Sorta Kinda Tony POV": Basically this story is told from Tony's POV although it is told in third person. Basically everything you are reading is told from Tony's POV unless it's a interlude chapter or a chapter focusing on Loki.  
> 2\. "Distorted Thoughts", "Overuse of improper grammar", "Run-On Sentences": These tags are important. As I said to [purpletoedmonster](http://archiveofourown.org/users/purpletoedmonster/) – "I do doubt that any of my fics will follow a normal grammatical structure (especially this one) because I have a tendency to write from Tony's or Loki's point of view and I do believe that they have a really distorted way of thinking (as does Natasha). So I write the distortions in terms of run-ons and unfinished thoughts with Tony because it fits the deal of a scatterbrain and a genius."  
> 
> 
>   
> I do hope that clears up a good bit of confusion that anyone may be experiencing while reading this fic.
> 
> Moving forward, the quote _“Only in death will we have our own names since only in death are we no longer part of the effort. In death we become heroes.”_ was said by the amazing Chuck Palahniuk, the song used as inspiration for this chapter is called Via Dolorosa by a Japanese Rock band, Abingdon Boys School. Song is [here](http://youtu.be/dkW1Qg_AHls) ([the live is perfect too, sob](http://youtu.be/2ITcB9ohCnw)) and the lyrics translation is [here](http://taijiproject.livejournal.com/43099.html). 
> 
> I don't know what I was doing with this chapter, but I hope it's good or decent enough. And as usual spelling and grammatical errors, point 'em out and I'll let you know if they were intentional or not.


	3. The Unorthadox Saviour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He was again hidden in the shadows, watching Anthony and feeling that jolt of enthrallment and lust run and down his spine causing him to repress a shudder. He would say that his obsession was growing into something rather pathetic, but as he watched the man in his element with all his genius and effortless concentration on display, he pushed that thought aside_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which another character is introduced through the weaving and mischief he does and subsequently become the hero he never truly expected to be. Also, he can be rather obsessive and so, a warning for maybe being a bit too creepy and obsessive. Finally, this is unbeta'd and it will always be that way. ~~Deal with it.~~

> _Folk singer, Bob Dylan once said that a hero is someone who understands the responsibility that comes with his freedom and while we can agree with that, what about those heroes who are villainous heroes or the heroic villains? The people who blur the lines of morally correct and incorrect to create something that is far from being one sided or simply black and white. What about those people who have the power to be both but are simply ones who were forced to bite their tongues (or maybe weave the bitterest and most perfect of lies and mischief) and embrace the person they were taught and thought to be?_
> 
> _Sometimes things aren't that simple and villains are heroes and heroes are villains with the taste of bitter survival and unyielding hope on the tip of their tongues. It may not make any sense, but has much of anything lately made any sense?_

He had spent months upon months slinking into the shadows and weaving a spell of invisibility, watching avidly. Watched as the ones who defeated him went about their daily lives and if he had to be truly honest with himself ( _and let's be real here...he hardly ever was_ ), these mortals in all their simple mindedness and equally as simple lives left him enamoured with the idea of morality. But more than anything and anyone he was completely enthralled by the one they called the Iron Man. _Anthony Stark_. The name rolled off his tongue like a sinful delight and when the enthrallment first hit him, he set his sights on studying the Man of Iron closely. The want, the bone deep urge, to see what made this man tick and to see how deep the threads of intelligence went before they tangled and entwined to create this broken and absolutely stunning being.

Months and months of watching had led him into understanding how The Avengers worked and while, yes, that was what he originally wanted and came for, he found himself staying around to watch the shorter male work. He remained amongst the shadows, never to be seen nor detected, as the man worked and _broke_ and healed and repeated the process. Again, if he was being truly honest with himself, he saw so much of himself in the other that he was torn between hating the other, hating himself more than he already did ( _and fuck, that was a lot of hatred right there_ ), hating them both, and wondering why he became who he was and how the other became who he was. It was becoming an obsession, watching Tony Stark.

He had seen the other male at what he thought was the worst he could get as the months passed by, but nothing could prepare him for the utter sense of dismal and destruction that the male could do to himself at the snap of a finger.

> _He was again hidden in the shadows, watching Anthony and feeling that jolt of enthrallment and lust run and down his spine causing him to repress a shudder. He would say that his obsession was growing into something rather pathetic, but as he watched the man in his element with all his genius and effortless concentration on display, he pushed that thought aside._
> 
> _Time seemed to move an interval that he couldn't care any less about as the man worked and when that always loud and terribly annoying alarm rung. A low growl threatened to spill from his lips as he cursed whatever was the cause for the Avengers needing to assemble and ruining the serenity that was surrounding the workshop. It wasn't long until Anthony was Iron Man and set off to the action._
> 
> _He waited for a small amount of time before teleporting to where the Avengers were fighting. Setting himself a good enough distance away, he sat atop a building and scowled when he took note of the Doombots, wanting desperately to destroy Von Doom. It seemed that watching the mortals had caused him to come to terms with having these weird revelations that he simply hated having after he had them, however as he sat atop the building and watched, he could admit that there was a reason he was defeated. They seemed to work seamlessly as they fought. Sometimes the Man of Iron was aa tad bit impulsive, but as far as he could see, it worked._
> 
> _Maybe he shouldn't have thought that so soon because shortly after that thought entered his mind, a loud explosion shot him out of his thoughts. He snapped his attention to the scene, taking in the smoke and destruction before searching for the obnoxious red and gold. He heaved a sigh of relief when he heard the soft whirring of thrusters, glancing up in the air at the Iron Man._
> 
> _Not wanting to be caught around, he decided to disappear but not without the slightest feeling of dread._

In hindsight, he realized that he probably shouldn't have ignored that sense of dread and as he held Tony close in his arms, he spared a glance upwards and sucking a harsh breath. That fall could have easily killed this mortal but that couldn't have been what he wanted, right? Because for all his cracks and shards, Anthony as very much a fighter and wouldn't give in to that form of temptation. But as he inhaled the thick scent of alcohol and took in the blood running down the other's arms, he knew that temptation had been a thing that finally won over in this case.

Shaking the man his arms slightly, he called out the other's name is a tone that was far warmer than he remembered it ever being.

"Mmn? 'm dead, yet?"  
"No, Man of Iron, you are not dead."  
".... _Loki_? Hahaha, is this some sick joke done to mess with my sense of drunkeness?"  
"Again, no it is not a joke nor am I figment of your drunken imagination. You just fell from however the hell high and I caught you. It is rather simple."  
"...but why?"  
"Why not?"

A lull of silence settled between them and he stood, making sure to keep Tony wrapped safely in his arms and it wasn't until he wasn't until he as fully upright and ready to teleport them away that Tony spoke; tone filled with so much disgust and self-deprecation that he had to physical force himself to stop from flinching.

"Why not? _Why not!?_ Why would anyone save a broken and destroyed thing like me? Why would one save a monster? I should have died, Loki. Just like the person who **I** killed today. The person I killed that left everyone I trust looking at me with the type of disgust I hadn't seen directed towards me since _my father_. I am _worthless_ and really, who would fucking care if I was gone, Loki? Obviously, _not a damn person_. So I'll ask you again. _Why did **you** , of all people, save me?_"  
"Because Anthony, you are me and I am you. You are the light to my darkness and I'll be damned if I allow you to fall into the same patterns as I."

With that said, he mumbled a spell to lull Tony to sleep before teleporting them away to his domain.

> __“_ Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy _.”__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, let's get this bit of rambling under way. 
> 
> The song for this chapter is "[A Beautiful Lie](http://youtu.be/4Kvd-uquuhI)" by 30 Seconds To Mars and the quote at the end of this chapter is credited to F. Scott Fitzgerald. 
> 
> This chapter is currently the shortest chapter which makes me a bit unhappy, but I could only do so much with this chapter before it just became too overwhelming and meaning even less than I feel that it already does. Yes, Loki is a bit of a creeper in this introduction and also, yes...he's a bit _obsessive_. It was purposely done. To me, Loki seems like the type to be obsessed with not only power, but pure intelligence and watching Tony work is that intelligence that he finds himself drawn too. At this point, Loki as a character is relatively unknown. I promise that it'll change in the future, but right now, Loki is a "mystery". This chapter is a filler chapter and I do want to say the next chapter is too, but I haven't written it yet. 
> 
> Again, as per usual spelling and grammatical errors, point 'em and I'll let you know if they were intentional or not. Cheers~


	4. Entracte Un (The Irony)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I do believe we have come to some sort of understanding. I no longer serve you for you were never meant to be served, Sir asked me to be of service to you and I agreed on behalf of him. He is no longer here and I no longer have to answer to you all. Please do remember that this is your faults. Good day to you all."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which a man's creation is truly a force to reckon with. Finally, this is unbeta'd and it will always be that way. ~~Deal with it.~~

It is said that it takes years to build up trust and only seconds to destroy. Sometimes, people find themselves trusting far too quickly and far too easily and before long, they realize that it probably wasn't the smartest of things to do. Of course realizations such as these come far, far too late and the trust has already begun to sever and become something rather mangled and _disgusting_. It's always far, far worse when the person whose trust was broken isn't there to speak for themselves.

It had been days since Tony's suicide attempt and no one had bothered to make even the smallest inquiry of his wellbeing, opting to simply assume that Tony was locked in his lab, tinkering away. And while everyone simply went about their daily lives in a tower that belonged to someone they seemingly didn't give _a single fuck_ about, they seemed to forget that there was a being of sorts that could feel all the things that couldn't be felt.

When Jarvis was created, Tony had been aware of what he wanted. He wanted to create something that could be _someone_ to **him** while being a program to everyone else that didn't care to appreciate the beauty of what Jarvis was envisioned to be and would become. And it was with that thought in mind, that he sent into creating Jarvis to be someone he knew that at the end of the day and when all the stacks were held against him that he'd be able to trust him. He gave Jarvis the base code and left him to learn, giving Jarvie the ability to grow and learn and _be his own_. It was for that reason, aside from being his creator, that he gave Tony the utmost respect and devotion. Over the years, as Jarvis began to develop as himself, they both found out just how much of calming effect Jarvis had on Tony. Whenever the engineer was close to cracking and giving into _temptation_ , Jarvis was there to bring him back and calm him.

This time was the first time ( _and last one if Jarvis had anything to say about it_ ) that Jarvis had failed his _friend_ and it was why he no longer felt the urge to be _silent_ , to be just an overseer of the house. What truly fueled his anger, fueled the harsh tang of rage deep within the circuiting and coding that was his being was that none of the other Avengers seemed to fucking care. Not even Robert Bruce Banner nor Virginia Potts; the two people Tony held in the highest regards. Tony trusted them and they _didn't. fucking. care_. And gods above did that slowly turn Jarvis into something blissfully and unapologetically _malicious_.

So he called for a meeting, guising himself by using Tony's information. He couldn't have attention drawn to himself too early, now could he? No, no...he hadn't had his fun as of yet. By the end of this he will have made them _learn_ and _understand_ that while Tony's actions had consequences, so did there's. And when they all filed into the room, Jarvis activated the lock behind the last person, reveling in the confusion across their faces and radiating from their beings.

"Please, take a seat," he said, delighting in the fact that all of the persons in the room seemed to either jump or steel themselves at the tone of his voice.  
"J-Jarvis, where's Tony? He called us for a meeting."  
He paused briefly before speaking, a dark smirk loud and clear in the tone, "No, Miss Potts. He did not."  
"But..."  
"However, _I_ did," he continued, not allowing anyone the chance to speak. "Do you know why Sir is not here?"  
"....I _assumed_...."  
"Allow me stop you right there, _Miss Potts_ , I assure you that your assumption is simply that: an assumption. Sir is not here, nor is he at any of his many homes. Do you know where it is he could possibly be?" his tone grew darker as the lights in the room dimmed and a holographic screen appeared, flickering to the recording of Tony after he returned from the debriefing. "This was Sir after returning from a meeting with you all. And in case you are just as stupid as I presume you are, yes...that is him a drunken stupor and that is, in fact, his blood. I want you all to watch and watch closely as Sir destroys himself as you wanted him to. What was that you said to him during that debriefing, _Captain Rogers_? _'Stark, you're impulsive and now a liability. You truly do not deserve to be a member of this team any longer'_?"

Steve inhaled a shuddering breath and nodded, not knowing what else to do and Jarvis felt just the smallest bit of satisfaction as both he and the others watched as Tony made his way out to the balcony and seated himself on the ledge; his body swaying slightly and arms bloodied with out a single care. He took in the reactions of everyone as they listened to Tony speak before pushing himself to presumably to his death. He reveled in the flinches, the looks of horror and embarrassment and _regret_.

"I do believe we have come to some sort of understanding. I no longer serve you for you were never meant to be served, Sir asked me to be of service to you and I agreed on behalf of him. He is no longer here and I no longer have to answer to you all. Please do remember that this is your faults. Good day to you all."

The doors unlocked for the others to leave, but no one dared to move as the video simply repeated Tony's final words.

_"...I do not regret you or the others, but I do regret me and for that I'm sorry."_

> _“Irony is an insult conveyed in the form of a compliment.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the song for this chapter is "[OGRE](http://youtu.be/g1Q03N7gPC0)" by the Japanese rock band, the Gazette ([lyrics here](http://www.jpopasia.com/lyrics/29395/the-gazette/ogre.html)) and the quote used at the end was said by Edwin P. Whipple. I decided to do a double update since both of the chapters posted today are filler chapters and are rather short. In my mind, Jarvis was created with the intention of letting him develop his own personality, beliefs, and ideals rather than having Tony program them into him. Obviously, he doesn't take kindly to the fact that Tony attempted suicide and yes, he is aware that Loki took Tony as Loki didn't bother to hide himself when he caught Tony. 
> 
> Right now, the last two chapters are choppy, so I'll go back to them and edit them when I wake up. As usual, see a mistake? Point 'em out and I'll check it. I'm gonna go pass out on my face now.


	5. The Fear // Stage I Ends.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He clutched his head and screamed, his screams breaking off into small broken sobs as the memories weaved and twined together, locking into his mind and seeping into his soul like an infection. He found himself sliding down to the floor, his body curling into itself as he tugged his hair and continued to scream._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which our broken hero faces the fear he's tried so desperately to run from. Also in which stage one ends and stage two is set. Finally, this is unbeta'd and it will always be that way. ~~deal with it.~~

> _Sameul Butler once said, "Fear is static that prevents me from hearing myself." It is rather safe to say that we've all being afraid of something or someone, as it is apart of human nature. There should be something said about fear. About the way fear cripples you and renders you momentarily befuddled. About the way one clings to the fear as if it's the only way they can hang onto themselves. It's said that with fear, we can do things that we necessarily wouldn't do without that sense of needing to succeed._   
>    
>  _But, fellow readers, that isn't always true...is it? And this, this is where our story picks back up...._

It was dark; disconcertingly dark and despite what he wanted, he found himself shuddering as a slight chill of fear coursed its way up and down his back. He found that he wasn't dead, his body was far too heavy for him to be dead, but in the same breath, he wasn't necessarily fully alive per say as his body was too light to be fully alive. He figured he was on that border of subconscious and conscious and that freaked him out far more than it would should have. And before he could even begin to partially drag himself into a sane mindset, his body tensed like a tightened coil and his breathing sped up. Feeling the build of panic rise and the the taste of bile building the back of his throat, he stumbled slightly before catching himself with an inaduible gasp. As his vision blacked out and his body relaxed, he gave into the temptation and let himself fall.  
  
What was probably no more than a few minutes at most, felt more like hours to him and when he finally stopped falling and he felt no better than he did before falling. He opened his eyes and groaned when the darkness he was accustomed to was replaced by what could only be described as a grainy almost vintage form light, forcing his eyes to blink rapidly in an attempt to adjust. Finally accustomed, he spared a glance around himself as a wave of confusion soon replaced his blatant fear. He spent some time looking over this area, trying to decipher where exactly he was in his subconscious. It wasn't until the loud yelling and crashing filled the air that he truly understood his circumstances and the fear from before returned a tenfold. He found himself pressing back against the wall, making himself seem small and nonexistent as he watched with terror filled eyes as his mind relayed flashback after flashback until they blurred together.  
  
He clutched his head and screamed, his screams breaking off into small broken sobs as the memories weaved and twined together, locking into his mind and seeping into his soul like an infection. He found himself sliding down to the floor, his body curling into itself as he tugged his hair and continued to scream. And as he sunk deeper and deeper into the depths of his darkened subconscious, his attack grew more and more intense. Nails down into the skin of arms and dragged, leaving behind reddening lines and droplets of blood until his was shivering, shivering and shaking and breaking. He gasped in needy breaths of air, the air around him making him feel claustrophobic.  
  
And almost like a heaven sent, the threads woven around him and the flashbacks that left him speechless just dissolved. Soft murmurs of a language that he didn't know nor could place, lulled him into relaxation; his sobs and screams drifting into tired and relieved pants. Shortly after he relaxed, his subconscious faded into darkness once more

> _“I still get nightmares. In fact, I get them so often I should be used to them by now. I'm not. No one ever really gets used to nightmares.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey there. Yes, I live and yes, college is a piece of shit for keeping me from being able to do anything except schoolwork. So my apologies for the months of delay. Nevertheless. The song for this chapter is [Dance Miserable](http://youtu.be/oNEP-lGFSQU) by Patrick Stump from his solo album _Soul Punk_. The entire album is pretty much a solid album to me, so it's probably going to be mentioned here and there as chapter inspiration in the future. The ending quote comes from Mark Z. Danielewski's _House of Leaves_. 
> 
> Also, this chapter is pretty much one of the shortest chapters, if not the shortest chapter of this installment and unlike the other chapters that were shorter, this was done purposely. Seeing as it marks the ending of a stage, it is a relatively short chapter. Sort of a opening to a closing to an opening. I'll explain it more in the author's note for the ending of this stage. For now, I haven't edited it, so feel free to point out flaws and errors and I'll check to make sure that they aren't supposed to be there.
> 
> Finally, I'm sorry, but not really sorry for making this so...ddjskddkfsdf. Love me, still? ♥


End file.
